


Dixieland, I Hope You Understand

by fenella



Category: Hart of Dixie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenella/pseuds/fenella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavon Hayes couldn't be happier! A tv crew is in BlueBell to find out more about America's #1 ranked small town. This is, perhaps, not the footage of BlueBell that Lavon Hayes had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dixieland, I Hope You Understand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [APgeeksout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/gifts).



“My name is Lavon Hayes, I want to welcome you to BlueBell, Alabama. I love this town."  
  
Lavon Hayes’ broad shoulders fill the camera frame. Lavon’s suit is all modern lines with vintage charm and old fashioned manners. The ribbon trim on his hat playfully clashes with the yellow pocket square in his breast pocket. It’s a supersaturated, sunny fall day in the south. Lavon walks with calm, muscular assurance towards the camera, until-

A small figure darts into the street, in front of Lavon before falling into step. “Hey, can I talk to you for a minute? Brick is doing this weird-”

Lavon Hayes’ winning smile falters for an almost imperceptible moment. He interrupts his companion, his southern drawl becoming stronger beside her contrasting speech. “Ah, as you can see, BlueBell’s fine medical practitioners are always in the midst of a medical emergency.”

The woman looks directly into the camera. “OH! Ohmygosh, I didn’t realize you were in the middle of filming... something.”

Lavon waves her protests off. His speech is slightly over emphasized, but directed towards the hypothetical viewers. “I always have time for BlueBell’s healthcare team. America, meet Dr. Zoe Hart.”

Zoe Hart winks unnaturally, also towards the camera. “We can talk to about important medical stuff later. You all should get back to getting acquainted with our mayor.” She holds two thumbs up and smiles, showing all of her teeth.

Lavon blinks, and then foreces the smile back onto his face. “Yes, I am indeed the mayor of BlueBell.” He continues his purposefully calm trajectory, the camera follows. So does the tiny woman.

“Mayor Lavon Hayes. Yeah, that one. The linebacker. Boom.” The small woman in shorts and stilettos makes some sort of gesture that looks like it’s trying to be a sexually suggestive gang sign.

Lavon grimaces. “Aw, Zoe, no. CUT!”

The camera operator, who is apparently walking backwards, trips and the remaining footage is of Main Street spiralling upwards into Alabama sky.

*  
  
The Rammer Jammer, BlueBell, Alabama's most popular eating and drinking establishment, is packed with lunchtime customers. There are also a few of last night’s more dedicated happy hour patrons remaining. Over the dull roar of conversation, BlueBell’s Man of the Year is focused intently on the interviewer off-screen, to the right of the camera.   
   
“I honestly can’t think of a better place to grow up," says Tucker. "I mean, anyone who watches _Parks and Recreation_ knows that small towns are the heart and soul of America. Not to say that cities aren’t full of vibrant, caring communities. But where else is your neighbour going to bring you a tray of sugar cookies, not because they wanted to bring you cookies. But because they want to see if that wall you painted in your home is really cerulean, like the hardware store rumour mill is perpetuating.”

The lawyer pauses, listening intently to the the interviewers commentary. He smiles ruefully, rubbing his chin. “Yeah,” he says. “That did happen, honest. What can I say - the folks here just, well, _care_. And I'm not just saying that because they've chosen me for Man of the Year, three times over. You could ask anyone.”

Over the left shoulder of the George Tucker, a small brunette woman is standing at the bar. She’s gesticulating wildly at a tall, slender blonde. The blonde woman is trying incredibly hard to look anywhere but at the first, who appears to be Dr. Zoe Hart, the same woman who accosted Mayor Lavon Hayes on Main Street.

George Tucker turns around to watch, as do many others in the bar, just as the blonde woman ferociously downs a tumbler of liquid that is probably not water. Tucker tugs at his shirt collar, and turns back to face the camera.

“You know,” he says. “It’s not really any of my business. I’m not dating, engaged, or married to either of them.”

There’s another pause while the interview poses a question, barely audible. George’s face flushes dramatically. “That’s a long story- and I’m sure it wouldn’t be of any interest to your viewers. They probably just want to know know more about what makes BlueBell the number one ranked small town in America.”

George’s statement is punctuated by the sound of glass breaking, followed by shrill shouting. In the background, just beyond Tucker’s attempt at nonchalance, a scruffily attractive bartender attempts to insert himself between the two women; the blonde woman pokes the bartender in the shoulder with her index finger.

George Tucker bolts out of his chair, before he has time to think about it. Once he does stop for a moment, his head reappears in the shot-

“I should go sort this out. Since I’m a lawyer and everything. Y’all know how it is. Man of the Year type business."  
  
The interviewing team makes to follow him, but stops as the frame fills with George Tucker’s checker patterned shirt. In the upper right corner, it appears that there is something yellow tucked into his shirt pocket. “I wouldn’t film this,” says Tucker's disembodied voice, taking a protective bordering threatening tone.  “Unless you enjoy lawsuits. But that’s just my opinion.”  
  
The camera stops recording.  
  
*

“It’s a bar,” says the bartender, unhelpfully.  He’s wearing a white tank, and leaning against the bar in the deserted restaurant. “People get drunk. They get in fights. Not necessarily that order. Welcome to to BlueBell freaking Alabama."  
  
There are a few beats of silence while the bartender stares off past the camera. He rubs the gold wedding band on the fourth finger of his left hand.  
  
"George Tucker's always getting punched. Or shot with crossbows. That's what happens when you get all up in other people's business. He should sort that out."  
  
The Bartender's cell phone rings, playing Dierks Bentley. _Am I the only one, that wants to have fun tonight?_  
  
He uncrosses his arms and pulls the phone out of his back pocket. ZOE, reads the screen.  
  
"Yeah, I gotta get this," says the bartender, walking towards the door. There is a handkerchief hanging carelessly from the back pocket of his jeans. The colour is a familiar yellow.

The bartender looks over his shoulder. "Help yourselves to beer, boys."

 *

In a motel off the highway, a news network tv crew of two is reviewing film on an archaic television set. There's a stack of pizza boxes on the table beside the window. On the long, beige wall that runs the length of the suite, there's a makeshift storyboard made from brightly coloured post-it notes. Some post-its have phone numbers and addresses scrawled in blue pen; others are roughly drawn caricatures of BlueBell's finest.

"Wait, Andy, stop the film there. Go back."

Andy rewinds.

"Now zoom in." After a moment, the older of the two men slaps his knee. "I knew it!"  
  
"What, Jake?"

"Oh Andy," says Jake. "Tucker, the mayor - this Wade Kinsella guy. They're all have the same yellow handkerchief."

"Uh, okay," says Andy. "So what?"  
  
 Jake pauses for one dramatic, gleeful second.

"Gangs."

"Have you considered the possibility," begins Andy, choosing his words carefully. "That there was an irresistable sale of yellow handkerchiefs at Walmart?"

Jake shakes his head. "There is something sinister afoot, in BlueBell, Alabama."

"Ugh," says Andy to no one in particular. "I get the worst assignments."

When there's no answer besides the empty sound of Jake's smug vindication, Andy sighs. "Ok, so why are we filming ourselves watching footage we took?"  
  
"It's so meta," smiles Jake.

Andy kicks off his shoes and flops, belly down, on his half of the queen sized bed. "Well, at least it's not because you're expecting us to be the next victim of gang violence in BlueBell."

Jake starts to sweat, reaches for the phone. 

*

“No,” says the young woman, her eyebrows arching upwards towards the pink rose pined into her hair. She shifts the blonde toddler in her arms, balancing him on her hip. “What kind of horrible people are you? You come into our small town, see the first teenage girl holding a baby and BAM!! Small town expose? Magnolia Breeland is a teen Mom? Ew! Sammy is adorable, but he is not mine.”

Magnolia leans in and kisses the toddler on the nose. He gurgles in delight.

“I wish I could keep you,” says Magnolia.

A man in a white lab coat crosses the street, sweeps the girl and baby both into a giant bear hug. “Magnolia Grace Breeland!” he warns. “Don’t you go getting any ideas now. I want my daughter to finish her college degree.”

“Bwick, Bwick!” says the toddler delightedly.

“He’s so happy,” muses Magnolia's father, smiling. “Not a Kinsella - definitely not a Hart. Must be the Wilkes genes coming out.”

Magnolia smiles. “Wanna come to the park with us, Daddy?”

The man identified as Bwick returns the smile. “Not today, Magpie. I’ve, uh, got somewhere that I need to be. You haven't seen Dr. Hart now, have you?"  
  
"Yeah, I did. I picked up Sammy about ten minutes ago at the Plantation. She was looking for Mayor Hayes."

Bwick leans towards Magnolia, his whispers carrying louder than he intends. "Was she still wearing the, well, you know?"  
  
Magnolia nods at Bwick; father and daughter exchange glances.

"Excuse me, sir, do do you have a handkercief that I could use?" It's Jake's voice, off-camera.  
   
Magnolia's father looks up with a start, before patting down the pockets of his overcoat. "No, you know, I don't think that I do."  
  
The camera dramatically zooms in on his jeans pockets, where the beginnings of a yellow handkerchief is evident.

*

It's early dawn on the pier, and the only audible sound is the lapping of the waves against the shore. The yellow sun dips and reflects in the water; the shadowy outlines of shore falling into water seem like improbable creations of a child's mind.

The television crew is gathering atmospheric footage. They have their orders to capture the picturesque and quiet charm of this small, southern town. 

"I'm telling you," says an agitated male voice in the distance. "She's getting suspicious."  
  
The camera swings around to find the source of dialogue. It settles on some shrubbery on the shore line. The tops of two blonde heads are just barely visible over the shadowed greenery.

It's a female voice responds, "I am _aware_ , Wade. I was the one who was nearly assaulted in the Rammer Jammer."

"Pshaw. You were not assaulted. I'm the one that you mauled with those claws!"

"It's just a few more days. And then this will all be over. Let's be reasonable about this."  
  
"A few more days! Lemon, my wife thinks that _your father_ is hitting on her!"  
  
"May I remind you, that we have be waiting twenty some odd years for this?"  
  
"Yeah, they've been odd alright."  
  
An exasperated silence. The camera operator takes this as their chance to move towards the conversation. Speed and grace are sacrificed for stealth. The camera operator is like a drunk hawk, tracking their prey.

"Look I killed George last night."  The camera freezes. Murder? The Man of the Year has been _murdered_?  
  
"Nice one, how did you manage?" says the male, evidently amused.

"Oh, I just got him on his run. He hasn't changed his route since junior high.  BAM!" There's a giggle.

These people are unhinged. Or hardened crimals. Possibly both. Now is the time to back away, quickly. Quietly.

More laughter. "Just don't say anything yet, ok?"'

"Yeah, fine."

"Wait, shh, did you hear that?"  
  
"Hear what?"  
  
"Shhhh!"

Footsteps of the two conspirators fleeing the scene, the bushes rustle.

*

A hand carved signed proclaims this building to be the Sheriff's office, though it looks more like a mid-century house. There's a swing on the porch, and several voices coming from inside.

"Mmm," says one. "Bill, these blueberry muffins are delicious."

There's a chorus of agreement, and then amiable silence. The screen door begins to open, but freezes again when the conversation picks up.

"So, guess what was on the tip line this morning."

There's a few groans. "Not Emmaline Harris again. I told her that there' nothing we can do about the radio station playing Christmas music before November."

"No, even better! One advising us to look into BlueBell's gang activity. And another to let us know that George Tucker had been murdered!"

The laughter is thunderous. The camera, hovering outside the screen door makes a hasty retreat.

*

"Hi," says the receptionist at the doctor's office. Cheerful bordering maniacal. "Why don't you come right on in. Doctors Breeland and Hart are both with patients at the moment, but they'll be with you in a few minutes. I'm Tom. Tom Long. You can ask me anything you want."

Tom proves to be a cheerful man, and even with no forthcoming questions, he whistles contentedly in the empty reception room as he files patient charts. The doctors' office is done up with Hallowe'en decorations. Ghouls and skeletons hang from the ceiling, casting imposing shadows the walls.  
  
A door opens and Zoe Hart, wearing unseasonably short shorts steps into the hall. "You should be fine now, but if you experience and infection or swelling- EUGH! BRICK!"

Zoe Hart's professionalism dissolves into shrieks as Dr. Breeland spills the contents of his coffee cup over his colleague. In a slow motion, almost deliberate maneuver, Brick manages to pour liquid down the back of Zoe's shorts as well as the front of her sheer lace shirt and silk scarf.  
  
"Oh, my, Zoe. I am just  _so_ sorry." Brick's face shapes itself into the picture of remorse. He's moves in to wipe away some of the liquid, insisting that she should change her clothes. Perhaps even begin to strip down here, in the hallway.

Dr. Hart takes a step back and wrinkles her nose. "Ew. Enough, Brick! George told me everything."

A second person steps out of Dr. Hart's examination room. The camera wavers, zooms in - could that be?  
  
"Hi," says George Tucker. BlueBell's man of the year is practically glowing with health.  
  
"He did, did he?" growls Brick.  
  
Zoe waves a yellow handkerchief in the air. "Looking for this?"

Brick sticks his hands in his jean pockets, shrugs bashfully. "I always win," he says, almost apologetically.

"Lemon got my flag this morning," George's eyebrows rocket dramatically upwards. "Brick, I know you always win Assassin, but look. This year's game is getting intense. Wade and Lemon are playing for keeps. I got a _splinter_ when she pushed, err, startled me into that tree _._ "

"Yeah," adds Zoe. "And, Brick, they're trying to take you down. Wade planted a flag on me just to keep you distracted. I didn't even know I was signed up! I thought you were trying to get into my pants. Not just spill coffee on them."  
  
Dr. Breeland's face turns a peculiar shade of purple. "I beg your pardon, you thought that I was what?"

*

Zoe Hart is seated in her office, and talking directly to the camera. Her hair is tied back into a bun, and her lipstick is a pink that looks out of place against the oversized plaid shirt she has used to replace the coffee stained shirt.

"It's been seven years," she offers. "Seven years since I moved to BlueBell. And I'm still discovering weird new town quirks and traditions. Last year it was Alpaca Fest. This year, this weird Assassin game. It turns out that every five years, the entire town plays Assassin, the week before Hallowe'en. Last time it happened I was in Mobile, having a life crisis - as one does - which is why it took me so long to figure out what was happening. And it turns out that Brick hasn't lost a game since Wade and Lemon started junior high. I don't really try to take sides in these things, but Wade did try to use me. So I think it's fair game to team up with Brick."  
  
Dr. Hart shrugs at the camera, fidgets with a pen. "BlueBell's funny like that. You can have your own familial allegiances, or get into decade long feuds with your neighbours. You can run into someone, every damn day, at the grocery store -someone that you thought you'd never even be able to look at, without your heart twisting and breaking into a million painful pieces. Or you can build temporary alliances in the name of being BlueBell's top Assassin, or Cow Milker. Milk Maid? Whatever."

Zoe pauses, points proudly towards the shiny plaque hanging on her office wall. "I got moooo-re milk from my cows in 2016 than anyone else!" it reads. Next to it hangs a simple wooden plaque. _Harley Wilkes, BlueBell's finest cook in the kitchen, 2004._

Zoe clears her throat. "But at the end of the day, we're all still here. We'll be here tomorrow morning. There's something special about this place. We fold into each other's lives over and over, together and apart. You can't just decide that you don't like someone, and that they're going to fade away into the crowd. I guess this is what people mean when they talk about community. You learn pretty quickly that you can't dismiss people. The ones that you think of as kind of insignificant to your own story, they all have something to contribute. If you let them, I mean. If you allow them that basic human kindness. And if you're really lucky, they'll show you the same sort of compassion."

When Dr. Hart smiles, it's full of warmth and good humour.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go assassinate my husband."

*

No one knows how the riot starts, this much comes out in the interviews. The presence of state police adds to the unrest, and Sheriff Bill Pickett actually gets in a shouting match with one of the officers.  _Gangs_ , they say, and he starts to shake with laughter before poking the offending officer in the chest with his index finger.

When George Tucker tries to prove that he is, indeed alive, it adds to the chaos instead of resolving any confusion. In the ensuing madness, George Tucker is shot with a tranquilizer dart. His dramatic sway and eventual fall to the ground is immortalized by several handheld phone cams, as well as the ever-present film crew.   
  
In the aftermath, all that anyone can agree is that Brick Breeland is once again the victorious assassin. As he's handcuffed by the state police, and led from the mob, he's grinning like the proverbial cat who caught the canary. His yellow flag is fluttering like feathers in the Alabama breeze.

As always, it's Mayor Lavon Hayes that sorts out the mess. When Wade Kinsella drives a pickup truck into the Main Street square, Lavon Hayes is standing in the flatbed, shouting through a megaphone. 

Later on camera, Lavon smiles winningly. "These are good people. They're people that care. They just get excited sometimes."

*

**Assassin, BlueBell Alabama 2017 - Notable Tagouts and Honourable Mentions:**

  1. > Mayor Lavon Hayes, by Wade Kinsella in a game of strip poker

  2. > Tom Long, by Brick Breeland within 1 minute, 30 seconds of game commencing

  3. > Sheriff Bill Pickett, by Lemon Breeland, traded for 12 delicious homemade blueberry muffins

  4. > Wanda Lewis, by Lemon Breeland, traded for 6 sublime carrot muffins with cream cheese frosting

  5. > Wade Kinsella, by Zoe Hart in an act of unexpected sabotage

  6. > Zoe Hart, by Lemon Breeland in aforementioned game of strip poker





End file.
